For What Binds Us
by phdfan
Summary: The chains are broken, but is he truly free? As Kirkwall tears itself down around him, Fenris is forced to confront his greatest fears - and greatest hopes - to come to terms with a life of freedom. Anders/f!Hawke/Fenris love triangle.
1. Chapter 1

**For What Binds Us**

**Chapter One**

"What was it this time?" Anders' voice is mild as he dips the cloth into the bowl in front of him, but even with his eyes downcast she can see a blue flash.

"Raiders," she says, and wrinkles her nose. "A particularly nasty sort." He lifts the cloth from the bowl and wrings it out. When he looks up at her, his eyes are their normal brown.

"This is going to sting a little," he says with a slight smile.

"Telling me doesn't help." She winces when he presses it against the slice on her arm and starts cleaning off the dirt and blood. "Evett's Marauders," she says, and looks at the other patients to distract herself from the pain. "They made a name for themselves raping and murdering along the Wounded Coast. Thedas is a better place without them."

"No doubt." He drops the cloth into the bowl, replaces it with his hand. His palm is cool and dry against her arm. "You did a good thing." A warm flush and her skin begins to tingle-itch-tickle. She resists an urge to either laugh or pull away.

"There," he says after a moment, and lifts his palm. She looks down; her arm is healed with no sign of the slice from the raider's blade.

"You are amazing," she says, and throws her arms around his neck.

He laughs, and pulls her from the table into a hug, spinning her around in his arms. "If I get this reaction every time I heal you..." he says with a smile but trails off, the smile falling from his face, and his brown eyes focus on her, inches away. "Stay with me tonight, Hawke."

She hesitates, and the smile drops from her as well. "Mother will-" she starts.

"Be able to do without you for one night." His eyes search hers. "Please?"

She looks down, unable to hold his gaze. His arms tighten around her and, pressed as she is against his chest, she can feel his heart beating a wild rhythm. When she looks up, he is still looking at her with that pleading-needy-hurt look, and she leans forward and kisses him.

* * *

><p>The throbbing is keeping him awake.<p>

With a grunt, he throws off the tangled sheet and swings his feet over the side of the bed. The night air is cool but does not disguise the throbbing heat on the palm of his right hand. In the light of the rising moon, he looks at his hand, squinting at the swollen and puckered wound.

He should have had the blighted mage look at it like Hawke told him. His lips curve upward when he imagines her reaction, but then he sighs; until he gets it healed he will be a liability to her. He looks out the window at the moon, just cresting the rooves of his neighbours; the mage might still be awake, writing more of his ridiculous manifesto.

He curses when he stands, and shifts his weight onto his good foot. Walking to the table, he couples on his cuirass before picking up the greatsword leaning against the bedpost. Hefting it in his hands, he makes a few practice swings before sheathing it on his back with a self-satisfied grunt.

He tries not to think about what he's stepping in when he makes his way through the twisted streets to the mage's clinic. He tries not to think about the smell either but it seeps in anyway. The undercity stinks of decay – decay and desperation and despair – all mixed in with blood, dust, and shit. He keeps his eyes turned away from the denizens of the dark - elves, humans, even some dwarves - but he knows they watch him with hungry, envious eyes. He saw the same look in the eyes of the Tevinter rabble.

It is a relief to limp up the stairs to Anders' clinic and push open the flimsy wooden door. At least the clinic smells like soap and herbs, not piss and shit. He draws the door closed behind him, shutting the rest of Darktown out.

The clinic is dark and hushed. He can hear the faint snores of a patient on a nearby cot, the muttered murmurs of another talking in her sleep. But there is no sign of the mage. A soft yellow light spills out of a room at the back of the clinic, and Fenris makes his way toward it.

When he pokes his head around the corner of that welcoming light, he does not expect to see Anders' naked back, robe falling down around narrow hips, ridiculous feather pauldrons cast aside. Nor does he expect to see the female leg curled around those hips, toes flexing and curling by turns. Anders is bracing himself with one hand against the cold stone wall, the other wrapped around his partner's shoulder as he moves, pushing her against the wall.

The sounds take a moment longer to hit him.

"Marian," Anders groans, and Fenris can't help but roll his eyes. Only the mage would be so delusional to imagine it is Hawke that he is bedding.

As he's pulling away from the door lintel Fenris spies a rack of softly glowing vials on a shelf near the door. He glances back at the trysting lovers; they have not looked in his direction, and the woman's voice is getting louder – and higher. If he can just get one of those potions, his hand would likely be healed enough for the morning.

As he makes his way over to the rack, Anders shifts and scoops up the woman's other leg, lifting her from the floor. The mage thrusts forward again – deeper, slower – and the woman gasps.

"Oh Anders!" she cries.

And all of a sudden, Fenris can't breathe.

He whirls around, ignoring the bottles he knocks flying. His eyes search the mage, the woman. Some sign, any sign to prove him wrong.

And there, on the floor, are her daggers. He'd know them anywhere. How many times had he seen her thrust them through the backplate of an oblivious goon, her blood-covered face greeting him as the enemy fell? How many times had he seen her cheerfully wave those same daggers at him, before her eyes narrowed and she leapt into yet another fray?

For a moment, he just stares at them. But another gasp tears his eyes upward.

Hawke. The abomination.

He has to get out of here. He goes for the door but is not quite quick enough to avoid the guttural moan from Anders' throat as his movements become short and jerky, nor the answering cry from Hawke's lips.

When he leaves the clinic he takes a deep lungful of air, absurdly grateful now for the smell, which, more than anything else, is not _back there_. Then he draws his blade, fingers tight around the hilt, knuckles whitening. On his return trip he looks into every shadow, catches every passing eye, but gains the mansion without trouble.

He sits down on the bench beside the fire and props the sword up beside him. Leaning forward until he can rest his elbows on his knees, he stares into the dying coals. It plays out in front of him again; Hawke, Anders – her every gasp, his every moan.

How could she let that abomination touch her? He had known, of course, about the mage's obsession with her. It had been obvious from the first time they'd met. But he had not known that Hawke returned his feelings. He had even hoped...

It doesn't matter.

When he makes his way over to the bed and lies down again, he has every intention of keeping it from his mind. But as soon as he closes his eyes he is there. Anders, pressing her against the wall. Anders, making her moan like that. He remembers the sound of her moan, her gasp. If only it had not been the mage...

He imagines that moan against his ear, one hand holding the leg curled around his hips, the other pressed against the cold, smooth stone. Her golden eyes on him, her arms around his neck, breasts flat against him, sweat trickling down between their bodies.

His good hand coasts down his body as his breathing deepens, travelling over his shirt, across his stomach, until it brushes the top of his breeches. Pulling the laces from the eyelets, he reaches into the leathers and pulls free his quickly hardening cock.

Her eyes roll back, eyelashes brushing her cheek as he slides into her wet and welcoming body, her head tipping back against the stone. He bends his neck, kisses and licks the salt from her skin; wanting, absurdly, to take her throat between his teeth. Rocking back, his length almost slides from her, but he smoothly reverses the motion and sheaths himself again, the movement eliciting a gasp that fills his chest with pride. Again, he does it. And again. Until her moans become breathless, her chest rising and falling with each gasp, and he too is close – so close, but he must hold off until she falls over that edge and then, only then, he will follow.

"Fenris," she cries out, "Oh Fenris!" And her eyes snap open and she looks at him directly, and that – that is too much, and he is falling, he is falling, he is falling.

Tears are in his eyes when he spurts into his hand. He blinks up at the moon framed by the window, then turns away, wiping the evidence of his thoughts on the tangled sheets. Shivering in the chill, he draws the bedspread up and over him, closes his eyes.

It is some time before he finds sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

They've barely slept. Marian gets up from the bed, and looks at herself in the mirror over the cracked washbasin. Anders is sitting in front of it, steam rising from the bowl as he slowly, methodically shaves the stubble from his jaw.

"You could let it grow," she suggests, leaning over him and draping her arms over his shoulders.

"No thanks," he says, looking at her reflection and smiling, "I look crazy enough without adding a beard."

"Mmmm, okay," Hawke says, and rubs her fingers along the line of his jaw, enjoying the feel of the stubble where he hasn't yet shaved. "I should get going, they'll be waiting."

"Do you have to?" His eyes meet hers in the mirror. "Couldn't we could go- together?"

Hawke turns away, towards the pile of her armour. She lifts the breastpiece over her head and starts buckling the clips. Suddenly, Anders is standing behind her, and he takes the chore over, his hands moving swiftly across the armour.

"You're avoiding the question," he says gently.

"I don't think it would be good to antagonise them."

"Him, you mean."

"I didn't say that."

"But it's what you mean. Is he that useful to you? I don't want to hide anymore, Marian."

He couples the final links, and she turns to look at him, raising her head to look up into his eyes.

"He saved my life, Anders."

"I know, I was there. But how long are you going to hold onto that?"

"Until I've repaid him. I owe him that much."

"Stubborn woman," he says, but his mouth is curved in a smile. "You drive me mad, but I love you." He leans down and kisses her, tongue gently touching her lips. "Go, then," he says, a little bit huskily, "But meet me later."

"I'll try," she says, "I will."

"I know. That's all I ask."

She picks up her blades, sheaths them on her back, does up her boots with Anders watching. Before she leaves, she reaches up and kisses his jaw, tongue running over stubble.

"You missed a bit," she says with a smile, then she's heading for the door.

* * *

><p>"All right, I'm just going to say it. Fenris, you need to present yourself better."<p>

They're on the Wounded Coast, surrounded by dead bandits. He's covered in blood and the wind is whipping his hair in his eyes. Not exactly the time he would have picked to receive style advice. He looks at the guardwoman, "What do you mean?"

"You're squatting in Hightown. I sympathise with your claims, but your neighbours have influence."

"My claims?"

"To the estate. 'Rightfully stolen' isn't exactly something I can forward to the Viscount. You need to be more discreet about... yourself."

Fenris blinks. "I will endeavour to exist with less offence," he says slowly.

"You're very conspicuous in that armour," she continues, "_Especially_ without shoes. Why don't you get some boots, maybe a change of clothes? I can lend you some coin."

"I don't need coin."

"Then you don't have any excuse. Just do it, will you? It would make my job much easier."

"I think you'd clean up real nice, Fenris," adds Merrill, "You're real pretty under all those spikes."

Fenris scowls, but any further comments are thankfully prevented by Hawke returning from where she has been rifling through the men's belongings. She looks tired, and grim-faced, a piece of paper in her hand.

His scowl drops away. "What is it, Hawke?"

She half-heartedly waves the piece of paper. "This wasn't a random raid. They were hired."

"By who?" Aveline asks.

"It doesn't have their name, but my money is on Lord Hariman."

"It would make sense," says the guard-captain slowly. "But I can't act without proof."

"I know. I'll talk to Lady Selbrech, see if we can arrange something that will make him show his hand."

"Um, Hawke, were you expecting more of them?" Hawke looks in the direction that Merrill is pointing, and Fenris follows her gaze. Another group of mercenaries. He tightens his grip on the hilt, ignoring the ache in his palm, and prepares to fight.

The battle does not go well. Hawke is already tired, her reserves low, and he can see her flagging as she fights. Her normally nimble steps are slowed, each time almost too late, as she ducks and weaves her way around the battlefield. She has circled her way around an opponent, preparing to stab him in the back, when another man looms up behind her. Fenris cries a warning, feels his markings flare as he enters the fade to step by her side, his sword coming up to block the descending (blade), but his grip – his damned grip – is not strong enough, and his sword dips – dips enough to let the enemy's past – past his guard, and into Hawke's shoulder.

Time seems to slow. Fenris drops his sword, feels his markings flare again as he plunges his hand through the man's chest, crushes his heart.

"Hawke! Hawke!" Merrill is running towards them as Aveline finishes off the last of the mercenaries. Fenris pulls his arm from the bandit's chest, blood dripping from his fingers, and turns towards Hawke. She has collapsed onto her knees, her hand on her shoulder. Blood runs between her fingers. She's looking up at him, a confused look on her face. _She expected him to protect her. She expected him to be there. He failed her. He _failed_ her._

She turns towards Merril as the other elf runs up, and the mage drops her staff and crouches down. She picks up Hawke's limp hand, gives her finger a pinch.

"Can you feel that?" she asks. Hawke nods, and Fenris lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. "Good," Merril says. The elf turns to look up at Fenris, says "I don't know much about healing, but I'll do the best I can. We need to get her to Anders."

Fenris nods once, tightly, and Merrill turns back to Hawke as Aveline walks up beside them.

Fenris doesn't scowl when Merrill pulls a small knife from her belt and opens a thin line of blood on her own wrist, nor when he feels the uncomfortable tug of her tainted magic. Hawke cries out, but the blood seeping out from between her fingers slowly stops.

"Now let me see that," Aveline commands, and Hawke moves her hand away. The wound underneath is ghastly, a mangled mess of flesh and bone, and Fenris can see where Merrill's magic has roughly knotted the skin back together.

"Can you stand?" he asks.

"I'm not sure, give me a hand." So Fenris moves forward, crouches down, and offers her his shoulder. She drapes her good arm across, and with Aveline and Merrill's help he gets her upright.

"I'm alright," she says, "I can walk," but Fenris doesn't step away, and after a moment Hawke leans on him and they slowly make their way back to the City of Chains.

* * *

><p>"What did you <em>do<em> to her?" The mage is furious when Fenris carries Hawke through the door of his clinic, and he can feel a presence hovering just on the other side of the veil.

"She needs your help, mage. We can argue later_._"

Anders glares at him for a moment before brusquely gesturing at the table.

Hawke had passed out halfway back from the Wounded Coast, and Fenris had carried her the rest of the way. He lays her down on the clinic table, as Merrill buzzes around like a fly. Aveline is more sedate, but her eyes reflect her concern.

"You lot, _out_." Anders says, his eyes locked onto Hawke's shoulder. The mage begins cutting the leather straps that hold her breastplate. Aveline and Merrill leave, but Fenris does not. _Cannot_.

After a moment, Anders looks up at him, but whatever he sees in Fenris's face causes him to give a disgusted sigh. "Fine, make yourself useful then and bring me that bag."

While Fenris is turned away, Anders removes Hawke's armour, and when he turns back Hawke is covered up to her shoulders with a threadbare sheet. Fenris wordlessly hands the bag to the mage, and Anders digs around in it before pulling out a clear vial.

"How did it happen?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral, as he pours the vial's contents slowly onto the wound. The wound steams, making unpleasant crackling sounds, and Hawke shifts even though she is unconscious.

"Mercenaries," Fenris says tightly. "One got behind her. I- I was too late." He looks down. At his traitorous hand.

"_Behind_ her?"

"She... was tired." _This is your fault._

Anders looks up at him, almost as though he can hear the thought. Then he's focusing back on her shoulder, and he gently sponges it with a cloth.

"Merrill's done a sloppy job," he says darkly. "I can heal it, but it will scar."

"Will she have use of her arm?"

Anders closes his eyes, his hands hovering over her shoulder, and Fenris feels the warm tug of his magic, so different to Merrill.

"She should," he says when he opens his eyes. "Get me a lyrium potion from the room out the back."

Fenris stalks into the room, but halts when he sees the unmade bed. It feels unreal that less than a day ago he saw Hawke there, very much awake.

He pulls his eyes from the cot, sees the lyrium potions neatly stacked in the shelves by the door, grabs one, and returns to the clinic. Anders has his hands on Hawke and his eyes closed, and Fenris can feel the wash of magic all around him. For once, he is grateful, and he watches as Hawke's flesh slowly begins to draw together.

"The potion," Anders eventually says, and Fenris puts the vial in the mage's outstretched hand. The mage pops the cork one-handed and downs the contents in a gulp. Though he has been going for nearly two hours, Hawke's shoulder is nowhere near healed.

Fenris falls asleep sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, propped up against a table. When he wakes, it is dark, and he can hear faint snores from Hawke. The mage is sitting in a nearby chair, one hand raised to his forehead. When Fenris stands, he looks up.

"She'll be alright," he says, and his voice is drained of all energy.

Fenris steps closer to the table, squinting in the darkness. Hawke seems to be sleeping peacefully. Her shoulder is closed, an ugly line of scar tissue marking the spot where the blade entered.

"Thank you," Fenris says, turning back to Anders, and the mage laughs, a cold sound.

"I didn't do it for you."

"I know." Fenris pauses, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I should go," he says.

"That wine won't drink itself, eh?"

Fenris stills at the mage's words, cutting even though the tone lacks all venom.

"What I do is none of your business, mage." But Anders seems already to have forgotten it.

"She feels like she still owes you," the mage says, gesturing at Hawke. "If you have any feeling for her at all, let her repay that debt."

"She doesn't owe me anything."

"It doesn't work that way with Hawke. You know that."

The mage suddenly seems to find that talking is too much energy, and he sinks down further in the chair, his head tipping back onto the backrest. A moment later, his eyes close and his snores join with Hawke's.

* * *

><p>When he pulls the cork he remembers that he never had the forsaken mage look at his hand. Well, it's not like they will be going anywhere for awhile. Not until Hawke is back to her full strength.<p>

He sits down in front of the fire and looks into the flames, taking a gulp straight from the bottle. Not the Aggregio. He saves that for the times when Hawke visits him. When did he start doing that? Right after the first time she'd taken the bottle from his hand and taken a swig.

_Venhedis_.

He leans his elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor. _He is pathetic. A runaway slave, with nothing better to do than drink wine and follow a human noble around_. _Was this freedom?_

Another gulp.

_It isn't like anything he hoped for could ever come true, anyway. Hawke needs a noble, not a slave._

_Or an apostate._

Another swig.

_What was she even doing with Anders? It couldn't last. If anyone found out... she would probably be executed, along with him._

_Maker condemn him for making her take that risk. For _letting_ her take that risk._

_Even being with an ex-slave would be better than being with an apostate_.

Another drink.

The door to the room opens, and Fenris is on his feet. He is surprised to see Hawke enter the room, hips swaying from side to side as she crosses to him.

"Fenris," she says, rolling his name around her mouth like she is tasting it. "I missed you."

"What are you doing here, Hawke?" He blinks once, twice, to make sure he is not imagining it.

"I heard that you were concerned about me," she says. "So I decided to come and reassure you, in the flesh." She reaches out, walks her fingers up his breastplate. "Do you _always_ wear this?" she asks.

"I don't have to," he says. She begins to unbuckle the clips, and Fenris shakes his head; "Aren't you supposed to be in the clinic?"

"I got bored," she says, "Anders is so _boring_, don't you think? Always going on about mages and freedom." He agrees, but he's never heard Hawke say anything like this.

She is standing so close he can smell the flowers she uses to darken her hair. Face to face, they are almost the same height, and Hawke's golden eyes are on him.

The last of the buckles unclips, and Fenris lowers his breastplate to the ground. Underneath, he wears a simple linen shirt that is stained, he is painfully aware, with sweat and blood.

Hawke doesn't seem to care. She reaches out and touches the shirt, running her hands along it, along his chest. Fenris can feel every line of his markings as she brushes against them.

"Hawke..." he says softly. She suddenly twists her hand in his shirt, the material bunched up in her fist so she has a hold on him. "Hawke," he says louder, "What about Anders?"

"Shut up," she hisses, looking fiercely into his eyes. And she kisses him.

He wakes up curled in front of the fireplace. It has long gone out, and he is shivering in the false dawn light. A dream, then. The realisation is bitter. For a moment he had believed it was true.

He takes off his undershirt, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Maybe Aveline is right, and he does need to wear something different occasionally. He certainly dressed better back in Tevinter. And it _would_ make his friend's job easier.

He resolves to go to the Hightown Markets.

For Aveline.

Nothing at all to do with surprising Hawke when she is better.

Nothing at all.

* * *

><p>When Hawke wakes, Anders is slumped in a chair next to her, holding her hand.<p>

"Marian," he says, sitting up. "I'm so glad you're awake."

She moves to sit up, and Anders helps her with a hand behind her back. She's in the clinic, a sheet is covering her, and her shoulder is throbbing. She touches it gingerly.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

She shrugs, one-shouldered. "Not too bad." She cranes her neck to try and get a look at it.

"It's not pretty," he warns. "Merrill's magic kept you alive, but healing is definitely not her strong point."

She can feel the lumpy scar tissue under her fingers, and shrugs again. "It comes with the territory," she says. "A few scars will improve my credibility."

Anders doesn't smile. "I wish you'd taken me along, Marian."

She looks around the clinic for her armour. "We've talked about this. You have other matters to attend to, other people to heal. Speaking of which, where is everyone?"

"I closed the clinic," he says. "I couldn't stand not keeping an eye on you." He suddenly sobs, "Oh, Marian, you have no idea how worried I was. The thought of losing you..." he trails off.

She looks back at him, into his blue eyes. "I'm a soldier, Anders. This isn't the first wound I've taken, and it won't be the last."

"I know, you're right – but, it kills me to see you hurt. Please say you'll take me with you next time. I couldn't stand it if I wasn't there and you were hurt again."

He is looking at her pleadingly, and she can read the effort he spent healing her in the circles beneath his eyes. So she nods.

"Okay, I'll take you with me. But _try_ not to get into a fight with Fenris. I don't have time to worry about both you and Justice."

"He is the most infuriating person I've ever met, but I'll try. He was here last night, by the way."

"What?"

"Said he felt responsible. Guess he wasn't quick enough to save you this time."

"It was my own stupid fault. If I hadn't been so tired, I might've heard him coming up behind me." Gathering the sheet with her good arm, she wiggles to the edge of the table and slides onto her feet. "Where did you put my armour?"

"It won't be much good to you, I cut it off."

"Well I can't go back to Hightown in a sheet."

"You could stay here."

Hawke shakes her head. "I need to go home. There will be messages and I need to sort out this business with Lady Selbrech. Plus, Mother will be worried sick."

"I'll get Merrill to bring you something."

"Don't bother her," says Hawke, "I'll just wear something of yours."

"Are you sure? We're not exactly the same height."

"I'll make do," she says with a grin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

When she arrives back at the estate, wearing a robe much too large, Fenris is the last person she expects to see sitting in her foyer. Fenris not only in her foyer, but also wearing clothes – civilian clothes!

He stands up when she enters.

"Hawke," he says, then doesn't seem to know what else to say.

"You're wearing clothes," she says stupidly. He looks down, as if he only just noticed.

"I decided to take Aveline's advice," he says when he looks back up.

"Well, you look very smart," she says, clutching the robe closed at her chest.

The truth is, he looks gorgeous. He's wearing a white linen shirt, collar open enough for her to see that the markings continue down his chest, and a long black coat with a high neck. Below his waist are black pants and... boots? He watches her gaze travel down his body.

She can feel her cheeks beginning to burn. "I've, umm, never seen you wear shoes before," she says.

"Marian? Is that you?" She heaves a sigh of relief when Mother sweeps through the door, interrupting a potentially awkward moment. "Marian, what on Thedas are you wearing? And who is this charming man?"

"Mother, this is Fenris, _sans_ armour. And, it's a long story."

Mother looks up and down at Fenris. "It suits you," she says. "Marian, come inside and get changed. You have an appointment to keep."

"Appointment?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten," she says, eyes flashing. "The Viscount's Ball! You have to go."

Hawke groans. "Mother..." she starts, but is cut off.

"You told me you would. You said you'd do it for me. Please tell me you will."

She looks at her mother. Thinks of all the sacrifices she's made. For her husband. For her children. For her. And sighs.

"I'll go," she says, then inspiration strikes. "But Fenris will come with me."

"What?" Fenris says, at the same time that Mother says, "I don't think that's-"

"- a good idea?" Hawke supplies. "Let them gossip, they already do." She turns to Fenris, "Assuming you're happy to come, of course."

"I-" Fenris starts.

"Then it's settled. I'll bathe and get changed, if you'll wait."

"Marian-" starts Mother.

"It will be fine, Mother, you'll see. And you always did want me to get noticed."

She gathers up the robe, and walks into the house.

Hawke says she won't be long, but it's more than an hour until he sees her sweeping down the stairs. She's exchanged the ugly mage robe for an exquisite dress, sapphire blue, with sparkling beads on the bodice. Her throat is bare, and her hair is washed and hangs loosely down her back. But Fenris catches his breath when he sees that the neck exposes her collarbone and the twisted scar that mars her left shoulder.

She smiles when she sees him and twirls, the skirt of her dress flaring out.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"Beautiful," he says without thinking. And her smile grows in response.

"Well, so are you," she says, and she slips an arm through his. "We'll make a fine pair, I can't wait to see everyone's expressions."

"It is not... customary for an elf to act as a lady's companion," he says, feeling that he must say something about the folly of her actions. "I fear it will not win you any friends."

"They hate me anyway," she says. "I don't see any harm in giving them another reason to despise me. Shall we go?"

* * *

><p>It is like a dream come true when he enters the Viscount's ballroom side-by-side with Hawke. Every noble in the room turns to look at them, but Hawke does not falter, head held high. After a moment, the nobles turn away, and the buzz of conversation surrounds them.<p>

"An ELF." "Those TATTOOS." "- explains why she wasn't interested."

"Well here we are," says Hawke, stepping into a window alcove where they are shielded from the crowds. "Mother likes me to mingle, but what she doesn't know can't hurt her."

"They see you as a threat," he says, keeping his eyes on the crowd.

Hawke shakes her head. "They just don't like newcomers. Or Fereldans. It doesn't matter that I'm half Amell, to them I will always be a 'stinking doglord'." She doesn't quite pull off the Marcher accent.

A drinks waiter walks past, and Hawke steps out to take a glass then downs it in one gulp. The band is playing, and Fenris cocks his head to catch the tune. It is familiar – similar to one that was played in Tevinter.

"Would you like to really give them a show?" he asks, a wicked grin forming on his face, and offers her his hand.

"I really have not drunk enough for this," she grumbles, but takes his hand anyway.

* * *

><p>They are the only ones on the dancefloor.<p>

"I hope you know what you're doing," Hawke says under her breath, "Because I don't have a clue."

"Just follow me," he replies, and takes her in his arms. She settles into the hold, and on the next beat, he steps. She follows, and almost stumbles into him, but he corrects her and they continue.

Heads are turning again, but he ignores them, focusing entirely on Hawke looking back at him, her eyes alive, her cheeks flushed.

"I didn't know you could dance," she says. "Did they teach you this in Tevinter?"

"Yes," he replies, and is about to leave it at that. But, he is here, this is Hawke, and he _wants_ to say more. "Danarius liked me to dance with the women. I was something they could never have."

Hawke is silent, and Fenris instantly regrets saying anything about dancing with other women. He wants to say, _but it was not like this – not by choice, and never, ever pleasurable_, but his throat is working against him.

He is so aware of every place they are touching. Her hand in his, his arm around her waist, her fingertips resting lightly on his shoulder. He can smell the flowers she's washed her hair with, but no perfume. Instead, he can smell the scent of _her_. He likes that. Her lack of artifice. So different to the made-up ladies of Tevinter, or even the Marches.

"I'm glad you're here," she says at last. "You've actually made this whole experience somewhat enjoyable."

The next dance is slower. More couples join them on the dance floor, and Hawke steps in closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He can feel a warm flush creeping up his neck, and tries to think of something – anything – other than her warm body pressed up against him.

"How is the shoulder?" he asks.

"Sore," she says, and he can see the renewed redness.

"I'm sorry," he says, the guilt stabbing at him again. "It's my fault, I-"

"Anders told me you think it's your fault. It's not, so forget about it."

"Marian-" he says, and it strikes him that this is the first time he's said her name aloud.

"Fenris," she answers, but her tone is impatient. "It's not. your. fault."

"Marian," he says, but this time it's just to say her name again. She looks at him quizzically, and he realises that he has come close – too close – to showing something far too fragile to be revealed.

"I-" whatever he is about to say is cut off by a red-faced Comte de Launcet tapping him on the shoulder. He turns to look at him, and the Comte laughs,

"You don't mind if I cut in, do you serah? You can't have the prettiest lady in the room all to yourself."

And then Hawke is dancing with him, and Fenris is standing by himself in the middle of a dancefloor filled with couples.

* * *

><p>It is late at night when they leave the ball, and Hawke is drunk. She's laughing, and crashing into him as they walk, and he puts his arm around her to keep her upright.<p>

"The looks on their faces," she's saying, "When we walked in together. That was worth having to dance with the Comte."

"I'm glad it pleased you," he says, his attention on the dark corners and shadowed alleyways that could conceal any number of thugs. Hightown, for all its grandness, was not a safe place to be at night.

"It pleased me very much," she says, and suddenly stops walking. He takes a step too far, then turns back to her. She flings her arms around his neck, and leans heavily on him. Her breath is sour with wine. "Being with you," she says, "Pleased me very much."

"Hawke..." he says in warning, "You're drunk."

"Drunk and happy," she agrees. "I never thought I'd be happy after one of those rotten balls. All pomp and hot air. I don't know how you could stand it in Tevinter."

"I didn't have much of a choice," he says lightly.

"I know," she says, and for a moment she sounds sad. But then she smiles, "But you have a choice now, and you chose to come with me. You know what that makes you?"

"No," he says.

"Free. And also of impeccable taste. Did you know you have impeccable taste?"

"Hawke, I really think we should take you home."

"Home..." she says, and her tone changes. "Where is home? Not Lothering. Not Fereldan. Not Kirkwall either. I'm not sure I have a home. Do you?"

"No," he says shortly. "But we really do need to get you back to the estate."

Hawke's looking at him, and she seems to sober for a moment, and nods. But then she's leaning close to him, so close that her nose almost touches his.

"Fenris-" she says.

"Hawke..." he says warily.

"You called me Marian, before." Her golden eyes are locked on his, insistent, demanding.

"Marian," he says, softly. And that fragile, fluttering thing is in his voice.

And she leans forward, and his lips find hers.

He's kissing her, she's kissing him. He doesn't know who started it. His hands are on her shoulders, but whether to pull her in or push her away, he doesn't know. He lets it continue. No, he gives in wholeheartedly, until she finally draws back, and takes a deep breath.

"We can go home now," she says, and smiles.

* * *

><p>The walk back to the estate is quick and without incident. When they get there, Hawke smiles at him, and then he's staring at a closed door emblazoned with the Amell crest. He turns around, heads back to his own bed.<p>

He flings himself down then turns and looks out the window at the moon. It is waning, more than halfway to the dark moon, and he cannot take his mind off that kiss.

She was drunk. She will either regret it or forget it in the morning. But his heart is hammering in his chest so loud that all of Kirkwall should be able to hear.

He closes his eyes, tries to recall every feeling of her lips on his, her arms around his neck, his nose filled with her scent.

It is a long time before sleep claims him.

The next morning, Fenris rises at the usual time but there is no knock on his door. He paces around the room, picks up his sword, makes practice swings, before putting it down again a few minutes later.

_She probably just slept late. Or is taking the day off._

He just hopes it isn't shame that's keeping her away.

When the sun reaches its zenith, and his belly growls with hunger, he decides to get some fresh air, hoping the change of scene will take his mind off things.

He sheathes his sword on his back, and sets out for the Hanged Man.

"Elf," is Varric's greeting. "You missed a great game of Diamondback last night."

He doesn't know what to say, so he just grunts.

"Where were you, anyway? I didn't know you had any other friends."

"Busy," is his gruff reply.

"Oh ho, I can tell there's a story there," Varric says, a laugh in his voice. "But I won't press you. I know how you value your privacy."

"So who won?"

"Me, of course. Wiped the floor with the lot of them. You're the only one who gives me a run for my money. When you're not there, it's almost too easy." Varric indicates to the barman, and a waitress walks over with a tankard of beer, foam spilling over the top, and places it in front of Fenris. "Have you seen Hawke?" he says, "She hasn't come around today."

"No," Fenris says, and feels the clutching around his heart lessen slightly. "I haven't seen her."

"Maybe she finally took my advice and decided to have the day off. Good on her." Varric takes a draw from his own tankard. "Drink up elf, I know it's not your usual taste, but it's good for you."

Fenris picks up the tankard and takes a sip. The beer is thick and yeasty and warm. It could almost be a meal in itself and his stomach growls hungrily.

"You've got something here," says the dwarf, Fenris runs his hand over his lip and flicks off the foam that clings to his fingers.

He takes another drink.

"So what do you do when you're not following Hawke around?" he asks Varric.

"Me? I always find a way to keep myself in trouble. Call it a talent."

"You're an unusual dwarf."

"You're an unusual elf." The dwarf's blue eyes are on him and Fenris looks back to the tankard so he doesn't have to meet them. It's a long moment before the dwarf speaks again. "You know, I heard a story that might interest you. Call it a rumour. Of an elf attending the Viscount's ball."

"Really." Fenris does his best to try to sound disinterested and takes another, longer drink.

"Yes, I thought that might interest you. By all accounts, he danced with Serah Hawke all night, and most beautifully. Hightown is abuzz trying to find out this mysterious elf's identity."

Fenris doesn't know what to say. So he takes another drink. The taste is growing on him.

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"No."

"Interesting. Then I guess Hawke knows another tattooed, white-haired elf she's not telling us about."

He takes another drink, and is starting to feel distinctly light headed.

"It's none of your business, Varric."

"Of course not," he says, and taps a pack of cards against the table – where did they even come from? "But don't you find it interesting that Hawke chose to publicly associate herself with this mysterious elf?" He shuffles the cards and smiles. "Diamondback?"

* * *

><p>By the time he leaves the Hanged Man, Fenris is much worse for wear and his purse much lighter. He's still thinking of Hawke as he makes his way home. But doesn't expect to see her leaning against the pillar outside his door.<p>

"Hawke," he says, confused, and she straightens herself.

"Fenris."

"What are you doing here?" he asks, and feels a sense of _deja vu_.

She steps closer. She's wringing her hands together, and she looks down. "I came to apologise."

"For what?" He feels like he's thinking through a fog.

"Throwing myself at you. You were a perfect gentleman all night and I think I may have embarrassed myself. I'm.. I'm sorry for putting you in that situation."

He blinks.

Hawke tilts her head to the side, looking at him. "I hope you can forgive me."

A thousand things he wants to say. But none of them make it to his mouth. "There's nothing to forgive, Hawke." His voice rougher than usual. She doesn't seem to notice.

She smiles. "You really are too kind to me. I won't forget it, Fenris." She whirls and walks away.

_Neither will I._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

He dreams of her that night. Of dancing with her under the stars. She's laughing with delight as they twirl and step, her eyes reflecting the starlight. His fingers find the scar on her shoulder, feeling every bump of knotted tissue, and he memorises the pattern, a silent promise to make it up to her. She snuggles up to him, her head resting on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm protectively around her.

"_Te amor_," he whispers into her ear, and she sighs happily, her hand slipping through his clothing, his shirt, to rest against bare skin. "_Nunc scio quid sit amor._"

She lifts her head, looks up at him. "I love you too," she says.

But something is not right. He looks up, and Anders is descending from clouds that have suddenly covered the stars, eyes and skin crackling with lightning. He cries out, brandishing his staff, and Fenris is aflame, the pain as bad as when Danarius burned the lyrium into his skin, and Hawke is backing away from him, shaking her head, saying "I'm sorry, this never should have happened, forgive me." And then he's watching again, peering around the doorjam, as Anders thrusts into Hawke, but this time Justice is in control, and Hawke is crying out, and she sees Fenris, reaches out a hand for him, crying "Fenris, help me!"

He wakes up covered in sweat. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and sits there, head in hands, as he tries to slow his racing heart.

"So, are you happy?"

Mother is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. Hawke blinks wearily at her from the bed.

"The whole neighbourhood is talking about you and that elf. The rumors are… unwholesome."

"Let them talk," says Hawke, and waves her mother away, falling back onto the pillow.

"All I want is for you to do well for yourself. Is that too much to ask?" Her Mother's voice is getting closer, but Hawke keeps her eyes firmly shut.

"Not this again, Mother."

"You dancing with that elf, making such a spectacle of yourself, has not helped your chances of making a good match."

"I don't care. I'm not looking for a lord to fuck."

"Marian! Don't you know the blood you carry in your veins?"

"Yes, yes. Must keep the Amell line going."

"Well, your brother can't. Nor can your sister. You saw to that."

"_Mother_!" She sits up. Mother is standing beside the bed, arms folded across her chest, wearing that _frown_. "Carver was always impetuous, I don't know how you expected me to stop him. And Bethany…. she's not _dead_, Mother. She's in the Circle."

"And any children she has will be illegitimate."

"I am more than your aspirations for our line! You gave up everything for father, what changed?"

"We're back in Kirkwall now. I can at least see that my father's line does not die out because of your stubbornness!"

Hawke gives a disgusted cry and throws off the bed clothes. She stands up in her nightwear, looks pointedly at the door.

"I'm getting dressed, Mother."

She crosses to the door, but pauses a moment before walking through, turning back to her daughter. "And don't think I don't know what's going on between you and that apostate. No good will come of it, Marian."

"Out!"

Lady Selbrech is taking tea in her rooftop garden when Hawke arrives at her estate.

"Serah Hawke," she says. "Care to join me?"

Hawke sits down at the filigree table, and takes a moment to evaluate her host. The blonde woman is actually wearing a dress but the delicate tea cup she holds looks oddly misplaced in her rough and callused hands.

Selbrech gently places the cup in its saucer before picking up the pot.

"Sometimes I like to play at being a lady," she says as she pours the tea, then looks up at Hawke. "Although I still don't find myself very convincing."

"I feel the same," Hawke says, with a genuine smile. "All of this pomp and pageantry is new to me."

"Really?" She passes the cup to Hawke. "That's not the rumour from the Viscount's Ball. I find it pays to play along, every so often. But I try not to forget my roots."

Hawke takes a sip of the tea, and looks out over the ivy-covered balustrade to the city stretching out before them.

"There's some good to Kirkwall, you know," Selbrech says suddenly. "I know it's got its share of scum and villainry, but it has a strong heart. A heart of freedom."

"Freedom?" Hawke says, raising her eyebrows. "From the City of Chains?"

"I think that's part of it. We have a long history of occupation. First the Imperium, then the Qunari, finally the Orlesians. That history drives us. Every Kirkwaller will fight to defend their freedom. It's in our blood."

"Your own freedoms, maybe. But not those of others." Not the freedom of mages, or elves.

"Can you show me a city that does?" Selbrech stands and walks to the balustrade, gesturing at the city with her teacup. "That's why this situation is such a travesty. The Viscount should be an independent office, one chosen by the nobles, not one _granted_," she almost spits the word, "by the Knight-Commander. We've gone from Orlesian rule to Templar dictatorship."

Hawke is silent, but Selbrech continues.

"I can't say that openly, of course. Even trying to ascertain the opinions of other nobles has proven rather dangerous." She suddenly turns, snapping her eyes to Hawke, and regains her seat. "Tell me, did you find anything when you killed those marauders?"

"Yes," says Hawke, and puts down the cup with a clink. "A promisory note. Unsigned," she says as Ser Selbrech's eyes light up, "But for a significant amount of coin." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the note, smoothing it before she passes it across the table.

The lady takes the note. "Lord Hariman," she says promptly. "I knew my probing would get back to him."

"How can you be so sure?"

"He's a slippery one, and rich enough to pay this kind of debt. I've always suspected he supports Meredith."

"We need more proof before we can act. Is there anything we can do to make him show his hand?"

Selbrech taps the corner of the note against the table thoughtfully.

"I can arrange a caravan to Starkhaven, on the pretext of trading silk. But I'll let slip that I have supporters there. Hariman won't refuse the opportunity to learn more of my plans."

"You think he'll waylay the caravan?"

"I'm almost certain. And with the damage you did to his hired men, he'll have to use some of his own forces. If we capture them alive, we may be able to make them talk."

Hawke nods, once, sharply. "When?"

"As soon as we can. This plan hinges on him not having the time to hire more recruits."

"I'm ready whenever you are."

"Then give me two days."

It is days before there is a knock on his door. His hand has healed, and he keeps himself busy with swordplay, practicing swing after swing until his muscles are trembling with exertion and sweat runs down his body. As the sun descends over the city, he makes his way to Lowtown. Drinks with Varric, and hopes that Hawke will show up. She does not. Varric does not speak of it. And when Fenris falls into periods of silence, Varric rattles on regardless. He has a feeling the dwarf is trying to distract him.

When the morning arrives with a familiar knock, he grabs his sword and takes the steps two at a time. But when he opens the front door, his heart falls.

"Hawke," he says, then: "Anders."

The mage is standing behind Hawke, that irritating look in his eyes that screams smug ownership. He wants to beat it out of him, wipe that self-congratulatory little smile from his lips. His hands twitch into fists, but he forces it down.

"Fenris," Hawke says with a smile, "Care to take part in an ambush?"

Hawke's plan has them packed inside a caravan, hiding behind bolts of silk. There's so little room they're more or less sitting in each other's pockets, and Fenris is absurdly grateful for the dwarf's mediating presence.

After hours of Varric's small talk, the caravan is finally silent. The mage leans with his head back against the side of the cart, eyes closed, staff laid out across his lap. The dwarf is asleep against a bolt of silk, snoring occasionally, and Hawke, squished in between Fenris and Anders, is idly playing with one of her daggers. He watches her use it to dig dirt out from beneath a fingernail.

The cart continues to rattle onwards and when the movement jogs them together Fenris is aware of every inch of skin that touches. Hawke does not react. But neither does she move away.

"Hawke," he says softly, and she turns to him. He can feel her skin where the vambraces expose his arm. His eyes drop to their touching skin, and hers follow a moment later. Then she looks back up at him and is there… could there be… something hiding behind her eyes?

"Hawke," he says again, and then, more quietly, aware that Anders is just on the other side of her; "Marian..." And that forsaken, fluttering thing is back in his voice.

Her eyes widen, lips parting. "Fenris?" she says, and in his name is every question he's afraid to answer, and he takes a breath to respond when the caravan hits a rock and Anders is jolted awake.

"Hawke?" the mage says, bringing his staff up, and she turns to him.

"It's okay," she says, "We're not there yet." And she settles back down against the side of the caravan and doesn't look at him again.

When the attack comes, the bolts of silk get in the way. While men shout and clash swords around them, Fenris is grabbing his sword and trying to make his way past the bales of cloth to join the fray.

When he gets out into the sunlight, he can immediately see that the plan has worked – although dressed shabbily, the men who face them are not common bandits. They fight like noble-trained swordsmen, and it is a pleasure to cross swords with them.

It's funny how they fall back into their usual patterns so quickly. Fenris engaging the foes, drawing their attention, while Hawke delivers her quick and lethal blows to their flank. As the last enemy falls, he finds himself throwing a bloody grin at Hawke, and is surprised to see her quick, proud smile in return.

Then she is rifling through the men's belongings, and Fenris turns away.

Anders is moving amongst the men, and every so often Fenris can feel a prickle of magic; stabilising their wounds, no doubt; they need survivors today.

"Nothing," Hawke says, standing up and putting her hands on her hips.

"What were you expecting?" Anders asks with a laugh.

"I don't know, a note saying 'I work for Lord Hariman' would have been nice."

"Not going to happen, Hawke," Varric says. "The lords have been playing this game for a long time."

"We _have _forced him to extend himself," Fenris adds. "These men were not hirelings."

"We'll take them back for questioning," says Hawke, then turns to Lady Selbrech's men. "Tie them up, put them in the cart, and let's head home."

When Fenris returns to the mansion, his heart feels as empty as its halls. He takes off his sword, unbuckles his armour and sinks down into a chair in front of the fire. Reaching down, he fishes around in the cabinet next to him, pulls out a bottle, and takes a long drink. When he wipes his mouth, he looks at the red wine staining the back of his hand and remembers the feel of Hawke's lips. The look in her eyes when she faced him. The weight of her arms around his neck.

But she had regretted that. Had _apologised_ for it.

And he – he had accepted it.

_Coward_.

He could have said something. _Should_ have said something. If his tongue and his guts hadn't frozen inside him.

He takes another drink.

It's too bad Hawke isn't here now. There's nothing like a bottle of wine to loosen the tongue.

Another gulp.

What would he even say if she did come?

_Hawke, _he'd start. She'd be wearing her armour, still bloodstained, straight from the battlefield. He can imagine the smell of her sweat.

_Hawke, _he'd say. Then, _Marian._ He likes the sound of her name.

_Marian,_ he'd say, just to hear it again. _I.. I've been thinking. The other night. When we kissed. I... did not regret it._

What you want to say is you loved it.

What you want to say is you love _her_.

And she would step forward, the fire lighting her face, and she would smile, and step forward, until he can feel her breath across his chin.

"I did not regret it either," she would say. And he would take her in his arms, like he did at the ball, and he would kiss her. Again. And she would moan, the noise awakening something deep inside, and he would pull her closer, kiss her cheeks, her chin, nip his way down her neck as she gasps...

He realises he's fallen asleep when there's a knock on the door. A tentative knock, not her usual confident stacatto. He raises his head slowly, unsure that he's heard it. But then it comes again, a little louder.

He stands up, the empty bottle falling to the ground, and makes his way down the stairs. Heart thumping, he hesitates only a moment before he pulls open the door in one swift move.

"Got you," says one of the men, and a bag is thrown over his head.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"I told you, you need to rest," says Anders. He puts a warming pack on her shoulder, and wraps it in place with a bandage.

"I didn't have a choice," she says.

"Hmmm," he says disapprovingly as he walks over to the shelves, picks up a vial. "Well, at least give the fighting a rest for the next few days." He hands the potion to her.

"I will," she says before she pops the cork and drinks the contents in one gulp. "Eugh," she grimaces, "Couldn't you put something in these to make them taste better?"

He takes the empty vial back from her, stacks it with the others. "It's good for you," he says with a smile.

She pats the cot next to her, but he hesitates before taking a seat.

"I need to go soon," he says.

Hawke raises her eyebrows.

"The Underground," he says. When her eyes stay on him, he continues. "Some of our contacts have been accused of blood magic. They're going to be executed. We have to get them out."

"Blood mages?"

"I'm certain they're not. The templars just want them out of the way."

"Why execute them? Why not make them Tranquil?"

"There's been too many made Tranquil lately. It would be... suspicious." He grimaces.

"How long will you be gone?" she asks, and traces a finger down the collar of his robe.

"I'm going to take them out of the city, make sure they're on their way. It could take a few days," he says, then pauses. "I won't be able to contact you."

Hawke nods, and lifts her right hand, holding it up for Anders to place his palm against hers. He does, and she marvels again at how much longer his fingers are.

"I'll miss you," she says, and he turns his hand to catch hers, places a kiss on her palm.

"I'll miss you too," he says. "You can't imagine how much."

"I know." She smoothly unhooks the first clasp of his robe, loosens the collar, and leans in to plant a row of kisses across his collarbone.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he says, and his breathing is starting to get a little heavy. "I'll let you know the instant I'm back in the city."

She unhooks a second clasp. "It's okay," she murmers against his skin. "You have to do your thing, I understand."

Anders takes over the unbuttoning, and Hawke pushes the robe off his shoulders, revealing his broad chest, crowned with golden curls.

"Mmmrm," she says appreciatively, and leans forward to plant a trail of kisses down to his nipple.

He takes a sharp breath, shrugs off the rest of his coat, and moves so he's kneeling on the creaky cot, his hard length rising between them.

Hawke abandons the nipple.

"But remember," Anders says, then gasps as she circles her tongue around his belly button, before following the trail of hair lower. "Doctor's orders are... not to, oh... exert yourself... until... oh Maker, don't stop..."

Hawke looks up with a wicked smile, "Are you sure you don't want me to exert myself?" she asks.

Her answer is his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back onto the bed, and he follows her down, covering her with kisses.

"Oh Marian," he gasps, "Marian... I could never be without you."

So she takes him in hand, guides him in.

* * *

><p>When Fenris comes to, he is being half-carried, half-dragged. His hands are tied behind his back, an armoured hand under each armpit.<p>

The bag is still on his head so he keeps his neck relaxed, head hanging down, and turns his attention to his other senses. His bare feet are dragging over cobblestones not pavers, so they are no longer in Hightown. He can hear armoured boots around him; four, maybe more. A sharp smell is in his nostrils, and his head is heavy and thumping – something they used to knock him out? He hears a door being opened then he's roughly thrown onto a dirt floor. Two men are talking somewhere close by. He stays limp, straining his ears for any scrap of sound. All he catches is Hawke's name and the word "hostage".

So he isn't to be killed... yet.

He keeps silent and still until there are boots next to his head, and a rope is slipped around his neck.

He will not be collared again.

His markings pulse faintly as he breaks the rope binding his wrists together, and strikes out at the legs of the man next to him. But even as the man cries out and falls, Fenris can tell something is not right.

His fingers claw at the bag over his head, and he pulls it off, blinking at the sudden rush of lamplight. He catches a glimpse of men standing in a circle around him before the rope jerks tightly around his neck, pulling him off his feet.

"Keep still, knife ears, or we'll be forced to hurt you."

Fenris growls, a deeply feral sound, and gathers his feet under himself before springing at the nearest man. Fingers, teeth, toes; he claws at the man with every weapon nature gave him, and bites a chunk of flesh from the man's face, blood coating his chin, the man's screams in his ear.

"Get him off, get him off!"

Fenris pulls back and drives his fist into the man's chest, but his markings don't respond. His fingers bend as they hit the man's sternum and go no further.

Pain, as the length of a stock whip suddenly wraps around an arm. Then a second around his opposite. A rough jerk, and he is pulled off his victim and sprawls onto the floor before springing back onto his feet.

"He's an animal," says the man holding his cheek.

Fenris jerks hard on one of the whips around his arm. One of the men stumbles forward, but the rope around his neck tightens, choking him, and Fenris lets go to dig his fingers under the rope, pulling it away from his throat.

The fourth man cracks his whip around his ankles, and pulls, jerking him off his feet, and the men rush forward as one.

The armoured boot of one man finds his ribs. "Knife ears," he says, and pulls back for another kick. "You don't have the right to dance with a lady."

"He's probably done more than that," says another, and the man laughs.

"Ooh, yeah, I bet he has. How was ploughing Lady Hawke?"

"I bet she likes it rough. Is she a screamer?"

"Maybe I can have a turn, if she gives it out to elves."

Every sentence is punctuated by more blows. His chest. His back. His shoulders. His head. A kick hits his chin and he can feel his teeth go through his lip. He wants to rise, rip their damned hearts out, but his vision is blurring, ears ringing. An armoured boot catches him in the temple.

"I will kill all of you," he promises.

And passes out.

* * *

><p>Selbrech is in her office when Hawke arrives. She looks up as Hawke enters, puts aside the letter she was reading, and gestures toward a richly padded seat.<p>

"You did well," the lady says. "I know some of the men you captured."

"Lord Hariman's?" she asks.

"No," she says, and sounds thoughtful. "Lord Powell. One of my supporters, I had thought. A good thing I didn't Hariman."

Hawke inclines her head.

"You've done me a great service, Serah." She opens the drawer next to her, and pulls out a small pouch. It clinks when she puts it on the desk. "To repay you for your time, and men."

Hawke picks it up, tucks it away. "So what happens now?"

"I'll seek an audience with the Viscount, present the men as evidence. It should force him to disavow Powell."

"And Meredith?"

"She might get involved. But with this kind of evidence, I doubt even she will be able to overturn the decision."

"So, all in all, you would call it a success."

"Indeed," Selbrech says with a smile, "Thanks to you."

Hawke stands, and heads for the door when Selbrech speaks again.

"Meredith would be wise to be wary of you, Hawke," she says mildly. "You're a formidable woman."

Hawke glances back, but the lady has returned to her letters.

* * *

><p>Without any pressing business to attend to, and under Anders' strict instructions to rest, Hawke finds herself bored. Sasha isn't interested in company; he's in front of the fireplace, snoring contentedly. Mother is out, no doubt visiting some of her old friends. Bodahn is busy attending to all the minutia of running an estate. And Sandal is, well, Sandal. Not much of a conversationalist.<p>

She investigates the library, selects a book, but has barely read the first chapter before she puts it down.

Almost before she knows it, she's coupling on her armour, strapping on her daggers, and stepping out the front door.

She doesn't know where she's going until she finds herself outside Fenris's mansion. It is quiet, as usual, and she wonders what he does when he's not with her. She knocks and steps back to wait.

Minutes pass.

She steps forward and knocks again, louder this time.

He's probably just out.

Her feet find the path to Lowtown, then she's pressing through the door of the Hanged Man. It's quiet this time of day, and over the soft hum of conversation she can hear the strums of Varric's lute. She walks up the stairs, through the open door of his suite.

"Hawke," he says with a smile and puts the lute down. "I was just thinking of you."

"How are you going, Varric?" Seeing him always cheers her up. She sits down in her usual seat.

"Can't complain. I've had some luck with the cards lately. Took some money off a drunk and heartbroken elf."

"You're a wellspring of kindness, Varric."

"It was a fair exchange. He needed someone to talk to, I needed coin."

"He?" she looks up.

"Yeah, I think you know him. White hair, tattoos. But maybe there's two of them running around Kirkwall."

"Two of them?" her eyebrows crinkle in confusion.

"Well, I assume that's the reason he denied dancing with you at the Viscount's ball."

"Oh." Of course Varric would know.

He walks past her, out the door. When he reappears, he's carrying two tankards. He puts a cider down in front of her, and takes the seat opposite.

"So what's going on, Hawke?" He leans forward, his blue eyes searching hers.

She has a feeling he's not asking about Lady Selbrech.

"Mother insisted I go to the Ball," she says, and wonders why she feels she has to defend herself. "Fenris came with me."

"So you took Broody to tweak your mother's nose. Not your smartest move."

"You know I don't care what the nobles think," she says, waving his concern away, and takes a sip from the tankard.

"Not what I meant." Varric hasn't touched his cup, and he's still looking at her with those damned eyes.

She looks at him blankly.

"Are you blind?" he says, then shakes his head with a chuckle. "Hawke, Hawke, Hawke. The elf is half in love with you, and you took him to a ball. You danced with him all night! What do you think he's going to think?"

"You aren't saying..?" She swallows, puts the cider down.

"Oh Hawke. You may be a brilliant soldier, a charming noble, but sometimes I wonder about you." The dwarf heaves a sigh. "Haven't you seen the way he looks at you?" He rolls his eyes, "I guess not. But the rest of us have."

Her hands are shaking, and she picks up the tankard to hide it. The cider is cool. It makes her think of the heat of Fenris's lips. The way he said her name. The catch in his voice.

"I… didn't realise," she says. She puts the tankard down. Varric is looking at her.

"Was there something else?" he asks, and his voice is all innocence.

Hawke flushes. "I was drunk. I... kissed him." And that sick feeling is in her stomach. The one that tells her she's just done something very stupid.

"Hawke," Varric groans, theatrically applying palm to face.

Leaving the rest of her cider untouched, she pushes back her chair and stands. "I should probably go and speak to him. Explain."

"Good luck." He raises his tankard in salute.

But when Hawke returns to Fenris's mansion, there is still no answer to her knock.

She steps back, looks up at the second storey window. But there's no movement inside.

Maybe he just isn't in.

Or maybe he's ignoring her.

Dusk is settling over the city in quiet waves as she turns and heads back.

* * *

><p>She kicks open the door and steps through, daggers in hand. She kills the first man, slitting his throat with a single swipe, and ducks under the blood spray to stab a second in the guts. She pirouettes, and goes down on one knee to drive her dagger into the knee of a third. He falls to the ground, clutching his leg, and she thrustS her dagger through his throat. The fourth is more wary, keeping his distance, but he's underestimated how quick she is. As he draws back his sword and swings, she ducks around him, punching her dagger through his armour into his kidneys.<p>

"Fenris," she extends her hands hand down to him. He takes it, and she lifts him up... and the blood is dripping off her hair and nose, and he is kissing her everywhere, blood on his lips and in his mouth. And she whispers, "Fenris, they will never take you again." And his every breath says, "I am yours, I am yours, I am yours."

When he awakens, he can't see a thing. His arms are twisted awkwardly behind his back, tied at the elbows as well as wrists. His feet are also tied together. His ears are still ringing, his ribs ache with every breath, and the world feels like it is spinning around him. He feels like he needs to be sick.

He is working on freeing himself from his bonds when he hears movement outside, and falls limp on the floor.

A door opens and a man steps through, carrying a lantern, flanked by two guards clutching unsheathed swords. The swords press uncomfortably into his ribs as the man kneels down beside him and lifts the lantern so it is shining into his eyes. His eyes close reflexively.

"Tch, tch," the man says, and Fenris opens his eyes. He is a lord, of that he is certain. The man's clothes and jewellery scream out pretentious nobility. But he has never bothered to remember faces or names. "They have done a pretty job, haven't they? You're almost unrecognisable."

The man stands up, and Fenris lets his head roll to follow him as he paces the room.

"You're probably wondering why you're here. Don't worry, I won't allow you to be harmed any further. Hawke has been making quite the nuisance of herself and you're my insurance policy. Just to make sure that Hawke won't let certain information go public. It's clear you're important to her. If I've judged her right, she won't risk you for the sake of principle."

"You're wrong," Fenris says, struggling with a tongue he hadn't realised was swollen.

"Really? We'll see. You'd better hope, for your sake, that I'm not." The Lord makes a gesture, and Fenris struggles against the rope as the guards step forward. One holds him down while another pulls a vial from his pocket. Although he struggles, and grits his teeth, they manage pry open his mouth and tip in the contents. They hold his nose and mouth shut until he swallows.

"There's a good boy," says the Lord.

And then everything fades away.

* * *

><p>The operation goes well. Five mages rescued through the smuggler's tunnels. Funneled out to five separate houses. Then passed through a dozen more, all separate, all unknown to each other, until they come together at an otherwise unremarkable house just outside Kirkwall's gates.<p>

This is where Anders meets them.

The five mages – two men, three women – drop onto their knees when they see him, shuffle forward, and reach out to touch the hem of his robe. He wants to bend down, reach out to tell them 'Don't be silly, get up off your knees,' but Justice uncoils from within.

He can feel the spirit speaking through him, knows his eyes and skin crackles with power when he says, "You must be strong. This is only the start of our battle. There will come a time when I will call on you, and you must be ready. The Templars' dominion will come to an end. Justice will be done."

And they bow down – to him! - they bow down to him, and then his helpers guide them away, place them in carts, take them away – away from Kirkwall, out into the Free Marches. Where they wait. His army. In hiding.

It is only after they are gone that Anders staggers to the window and empties the contents of his stomach into the flowerbed. He is shaking.

* * *

><p>The note arrives at midday. Hawke is sitting in the library, reading, when Bodahn brings it in.<p>

Although her heart is pounding, she opens it slowly, careful to flatten it against her leg before she begins.

Somehow, she already knows what it's going to say.

_Serah Hawke,_

_We have the elf. If you value his life, you will not allow S to complete her plan._

_Secure my men and we can arrange an exchange._

_P._

Slowly, carefully, she refolds it. Stands. Couples on her armour.

"Bodahn," she says, her voice calm, controlled. The dwarf pops his head back around the door. "Find Varric, Merrill, and Aveline. Tell them to meet me here in half an hour." She wishes Anders was here.

The dwarf bows and leaves the room.

Hawke hesitates a moment longer before grabbing her daggers and leaving the estate.

Then she's walking up Lady Selbrech's steps. Pounding on the door. The man-servant opens it, raises an eyebrow. She pushes past, ignoring the man's protestations.

"Selbrech!"

"What is it, Hawke?" The lady appears on the landing, starts walking down the stairs.

"Have you gone to the Viscount yet?" she demands.

"No," Selbrech starts, "but-"

"Thank the Maker," says Hawke, and releases a deep breath. "You can't."

"Why, Hawke? What has happened?"

"Powell. He has Fenris."

The woman reaches the bottom of the stairs. "The elf?" she asks.

"Yes. I don't know how. Or where."

"Let me guess, he has offered an exchange for his men?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." Selbrech turns and walks in the direction of her sun room. Hawke follows, each step thudding loudly in her ears. The woman sits down in a chair near the window, indicates to the man-servant behind Hawke. "Would you like some tea?" she asks.

"No," Hawke says, barely managing to keep her tone civilised.

"Just one, Marcus, thank you." She turns her attention back to Hawke, who is still standing. "I've invested a lot to get to this stage," she says slowly. "And this could be the turning point for the noble's revolution. I'm afraid that an elf, no matter how fine a dancer he may be, is inconsequential compared to that."

"Selbrech..." Hawke hisses the word. A warning.

"I would not try anything here, Hawke," the lady says, and accepts a teacup from the man-servant who has appeared next to her. "You will find that my staff are prepared for all contingencies."

"So you will not help me."

"I didn't say that."

"Then what will you do?" she demands.

"I will give you time. I will hold onto Powell's men, but I will wait to go to the Viscount. That should let you find the elf's location, and rescue him. I assume you don't need any men?"

"Where would he be hiding him?"

"Powell used to run with a gang in Darktown, believe it or not. He still knows some of the old smugglers' tunnels that run beneath the city. I would start there."

* * *

><p>Anders is curled up in a ball below the window when the woman returns home. If he remembers rightly, she isn't a mage, but her son was. She helps him up from the floor, takes him into a spare room – her son's old bedroom, he realises – and lays him down on the bed. She disappears, and he can hear her banging around among cupboards. She returns with a bread roll and a steaming bowl.<p>

"Eat," she says, and thrusts it in his direction. He accepts the bowl, and picks up the spoon resting against the side. It's a thin gruel, more root vegetables than meat, but he eats, and can feel warmth returning to his insides. The woman sits down in the chair next to him, and nods approvingly. She doesn't say anything, and the silence is welcome.

When he finishes, he hands the bowl back to the woman.

"Thank you," he says. And means it. "I should go."

The woman nods, looks at the toy horse sitting on the bedside table, and speaks. "You can't do it alone," she says.

"I'm sorry?" His hands, in the process of retying his hair, pause in mid-air.

"This revolution. You can't do it alone. You need help. There are supporters. Maybe enough of us."

"It's too dangerous," he says shortly. He stands, and picks up his staff from where it rests against the doorjam.

"Think about it," the old woman says. "You can't carry this burden alone."

He hesitates at the doorway.

"Thank you," he says again. "But I'm never alone."

And leaves.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

They're waiting for her at the estate.

"What's going on, Hawke?" She wordlessly hands Aveline the note.

"Fenris has been kidnapped," Aveline says tersely.

"Kidnapped?" Merrill squeaks. "Why didn't he... you know... do his glowy, everybody dies thing?"

"I don't know," says Hawke, and her voice is tight. "We just need to find him. Quickly."

"We'll find him, Hawke," says Varric, his voice frustratingly calm.

"Selbrech suggested Darktown. Apparently Lord Powell, as he's known these days, used to be a smuggler."

"The smuggler's tunnels," Varric says, catching on. "I know them. And I have a couple of favours I can call on."

* * *

><p>With Varric's help, the location is relatively easy to find. There are plenty of hungry souls in Darktown with eyes and a desperate need for coin.<p>

When she is standing before the entrance Hawke realises her heart is pounding – in a way that it hasn't since her very first battles.

"Are you ready?" she asks, and looks around at the grim faces of her friends. Even Varric is tight and drawn, and he grips Bianca with white knuckles.

"Remember, if Lord Powell is there we need to take him alive," says Aveline. "I want that bastard to pay for what he's done, in court."

"I can't promise that, Aveline. We need to do this quickly," Hawke says. "They've threatened his life. They may carry it out."

She counts down on her fingers, and they burst through the door.

* * *

><p>On his way back into Kirkwall, Anders is stopped by a whisper from a nearby alley.<p>

"Mage!" the voice whispers, "Over here, mage!"

Anders looks around him, but the street is empty. He shifts his grip on his staff, and steps into the alleyway.

A small man wearing a leather jerkin with no buttons is grinning and bowing his head.

"What are you doing, man?" Anders demands. "You'll call attention to me like that."

"I heard, I heard you help people," says the man.

"I do," says Anders carefully.

"Then you got to help me sister. She's giving birth but the baby, it's not coming. You help people, right?"

Anders glances back out onto the street, but there is still no sign of templars. He turns back to the man, sighs inwardly.

"Where is she?" he asks.

* * *

><p>The guards inside the room didn't stand a chance.<p>

With the combined force of Varric and Aveline, the door explodes inward. Hawke steps through the splintered remains, kills the first man before he's even risen from his game. As arterial blood mists the pile of cards and coins, a second man pushes his chair back and reaches for his sword, propped up against the nearby wall. He's stopped by a dagger slipped through the chinks in his armour before his fingers touch the hilt.

The third man has slightly more warning, and is armed when Hawke turns to face him.

"Where's Fenris?" Hawke demands, hefting the weight of her daggers in her hands.

The guard just bares his teeth in a snarl. "And why should I tell you anything?"

"She's a woman on a mission," says Varric, crossbow aimed at him. "I'd do what she says."

The man looks at Varric, back at Hawke. Seems to make up his mind. "If I show you where he is, you'll let me go, right?"

"Right," says Varric. At the same time Hawke says, "Just tell me where he is."

"It's the elf you're after, right? The tattooed one?" The guard fumbles around his belt, produces a set of keys. "I'll take you to him, and you let me go."

He crosses the room, uses the keys to unlock an iron-bound door. "Here we go, wrapped up nice and tight for you. You let me go now?"

"Aveline, hold him," Hawke says, "I need to make sure he's there."

She steps through the doorway into darkness. At first, she can see nothing, but as her eyes adjust she can see a low lying shape on the ground, very still and silent.

"Fenris?" she whispers, and when there's no reply her heart feels like it misses a beat.

She makes her way over to him, and kneels down beside before turning him over. It's much too dark to see anything about his condition, so she leans down, ear beside his mouth, and heaves a sigh of relief when she hears a small, quiet breath.

"Varric!" she calls out, and the dwarf steps through the door and makes his way directly to her – no need, it seems for his eyes to adjust.

"Ancestors," he breathes, and catches Hawke's shoulder with his hand. "If you grab him under the arms, I'll take his legs."

When they struggle through the doorway, the extent of Fenris's injuries becomes visible.

"Oh, Creators, Fenris." Merrill flitters around them as they carry him to a clear patch of floor. Even Aveline, where she stands holding the last remaining guard, seems to pale beneath her fair complexion.

Hawke gently lowers the unconscious elf to the floor, and reaches for her daggers.

"Hawke..." Varric says warningly.

"Merrill, do what you can for him." She turns to the guard, now trying to break out of Aveline's grip. "Did you do this to him?"

The man shakes his head quickly. "Not me. I'm the new shift. Would have been the guys before."

"How unfortunate... for you."

"Hawke," says Aveline warningly, "I can't let you kill an unarmed man."

Hawke turns to her, her eyes ablaze. "Don't you see what they've done?"

Aveline looks over at Fenris, the glow of Merrill's magic reflecting off his bruised and battered face.

"I can see. But that doesn't make this right. He needs to stand trial."

"Trial," says Hawke, with a bitter laugh. "What good is a trial when we both know Lord Powell will buy the judges' verdict? He won't allow one of his guards to point to his involvement."

"Either way, it's the law. I'm not going to stand by while a man is murdered."

Hawke looks into Aveline's steely blue eyes, sees nothing but resolve. With a small sigh, she reverses her grip on the daggers and smoothly resheathes them on her back.

"Fine," she says. "We'll do it your way. But if the law doesn't take care of this, I will."

"Thank you, Hawke."

"I've done the best I can for him," says Merrill, standing up and wiping her bloody hands on her armour. "But he's still unconscious. Drugs, I think, not magic."

Hawke kneels beside him, sees that the bruise across his eyes has faded, the cut on his lip healed, albeit with a small white scar. "Thank you, Merrill."

"He's still got some cracked ribs – I don't think it's a good idea for me to try to fix them. He'll need to be careful, or get Anders to look at it. You know I'm really not a healer."

"You've helped me with healing twice now," Hawke says, and looks up at the dark-haired elf and smiles. "We need to get him out of here."

"I'll take him," says Aveline. "Varric, watch the guard."

Varric crosses the room, and prods the guard with the tip of the crossbow. "No surprises or you're going to make Bianca's close acquaintance."

Meanwhile, Aveline crosses the room, kneels down beside Hawke, and scoops the lanky elf into her arms. "Oof," she says, "Heavier than he looks." But she steps to her feet, and looks at Hawke. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>As they make their way to Hightown – such an excruciatingly long way, now that they carry an injured Fenris – Hawke stays by his side, so much so that Aveline eventually tosses her head, and says "Hawke, leave him be. We can't do anything until we get back to the estate."<p>

The guard, prodded along by Varric, is handed off to one of Aveline's men with strict instructions for his delivery to the gaol.

When they arrive at the estate, Hawke waves off Bodahn, and directs Aveline directly up the stairs. The guardswoman lays the elf down on the coverlet of Hawke's bed.

"Do you want me to get Anders?" she asks.

Hawke shakes her head. "He's busy. I can take care of him."

"Are you sure, Hawke?"

Hawke has to laugh at Aveline's concern. "I've bound cracked ribs before. Merrill dealt with the rest. I'll be fine. I just want to see that he wakes up okay."

"Okay then," says Aveline, and shifts her weight onto the other foot. "You know where I am if you need me."

"The same goes for me," says Varric.

"And me!" adds Merrill.

"Thank you, all of you, for your help today. But I'll be fine now." She looks at them until they start for the door.

Only Varric hesitates in the doorway. "Take care of yourself, too," he says before turning away.

* * *

><p>Despite her confident words, her hands are shaking when she turns to Fenris. His eyes are still closed, long eyelashes gently touching his cheek. She adjusts the pillow under his head, stands up and goes to the fireplace, then turns back to him and sits down beside him.<p>

She does need to bind those ribs. And as much as she dislikes invading his privacy, she needs to check the rest of him. She calls for Bodahn then, as gently as she can, she pulls the thin linen undershirt up from his chest, up his arms, over his head.

The first thing she notices is that the lyrium tattoos extend down his chest, curling around and under slim but defined pectoral muscles, and down either side of his taut stomach, before disappearing beneath his linen pants.

The second thing she notices is the deep purple bruises on his side. She gently probes the tender flesh, but can't feel any ribs out of alignment. Bodahn bustles into the room, a wide array of healing salves and bandages on a silver tray that he places on the table beside her.

"Thank you," she says automatically, as she takes a wide bandage and a small bottle of salve. After she smears the salve across the bruises, Bodahn helps to lift the torso of the unconscious elf, and she wraps the bandage around his chest – tight, but not so that it inhibits his breathing.

Once she is finished, she sits back to survey her handiwork and decides that, while it's not Anders' work, it will do.

"Would you like me to draw you a bath, Mistress?" Bodahn asks, and she realises that she's still wearing her blood-spattered armour.

But she's not going to leave him alone until he's awake and moving.

"No, thank you."

"Of course, Mistress."

She means to move to a chair in the corner of the room, but the empty expanse of the bed is too inviting. And before she knows it, she has stretched out next to him and fallen asleep.

* * *

><p>Fenris fades in and out of consciousness.<p>

He dreams. That Hawke has rescued him, and is carrying him in her arms. That he can feel her cool hands on him, soothing pain he didn't know he had. That he's lying on her bed with her beside him.

When his eyes slowly blink open, it takes him awhile to realise that it's not a dream. He really is lying on a fancy bed, Hawke next to him, snoring softly, her head resting on her outstretched arm, fingers barely grazing his shoulder.

She looks beautiful. Her tousled brown hair is a wave on the bed, her face relaxed in sleep. Why is he here, and where is Anders?

"Hawke," he says softly, and she wakes.

"Fenris," she says, and yawns, stifling it with her hand – it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Then - "Oh, Fenris!" She sits up suddenly, and scoots closer to him. "How do you feel? Are you okay?"

"I have a splitting headache," he says with a smile, "But... I'm okay." Then his head clears, and he realises the implications of being here. "You came for me."

"Of course I flaming came for you," Hawke says. Anger is in her voice. He reaches out, touches her shoulder – and his fingers stroke down scales of metal; she's still wearing her armour, speckled with blood.

"You shouldn't have," he says. "I failed you."

"Failed me?" Her voice catches, and she swallows heavily before saying, "How have you failed me?"

"I shouldn't have let them take me. I was weak."

"Fenris," she says, and her voice is thick. "You are very far from weak."

She reaches out, and touches his forehead, his hair. Her eyes are fixed on him, her brows still drawn together, and he wants to smooth that away, does not want to be the cause of her concern. He starts to sit up, but gasps when he feels a sharp pain in his side.

"Careful," Hawke says. "Your ribs are cracked."

He feels the bandage wrapped around his middle. And suddenly realises he's half-naked. He can't help the flush that creeps onto his cheeks. No one has seen him this unclothed since he was in Tevinter.

Hawke is looking away. "I'm sorry," she says, and he realises she's apologising for helping him.

"It's okay," his fingers find her hand where it rests on the bed, and he turns it over so her palm is facing up and gently traces the row of calluses. A warrior's hand, not a mage's.

She turns to look at him, and her expression is so open – so vulnerable. He leans forward. He doesn't even know what he's going to do until he presses his lips to hers. And Hawke – she's kissing him back, and crying, and saying something – and hot tears drip onto his face, his lips; he can taste the salt. All he can make out is her saying his name, and then she's burying her face in his shoulder, and he can feel her tears on his skin. But her armour is poking him in the belly, and he shifts.

"What's wrong?" she asks, and sits up, roughly wiping her cheeks.

"Your armour," he says, "is... uncomfortable."

This makes her laugh. He doesn't know why. But then she's uncoupling the links, and she drops it to the floor before crawling back onto the bed.

And then they're kissing again. And Fenris reaches out to touch her, just to convince himself that she's really there, that he's really here, and he can feel her warmth through the thin shirt that covers her.

"Marian," he mumbles against her lips, and then again... "Marian." And that damned fluttering thing is in his voice. And she replies - "Fenris," and what happens next is nothing like he'd imagined.

Where he had imagined rough passion, Hawke is gentle affection. Her hands are in his hair – and then they're sliding over his shoulders, down his chest, his stomach – carefully avoiding the lyrium burns. And he's gasping at her touch, arching his back, pressing his skin against her hands. And she bends down and kisses him; his face, his neck, his chest. And then she's pulling down his thin linen pants – filthy after his captivity – and her hand wraps around him, though only for a moment because he is ready, oh so ready. And she must be too, because she's climbing on top of him, throwing off clothing as she goes, and it is only at the last second that he remembers to say: "Marian – I haven't, before." And she – she smiles and lowers herself down, sheathing him inside her, and he cries out – is embarrassed to feel his loins tighten. Then she leans over him, her unbound hair brushing his chest, and gently takes the edge of his ear in her teeth, and says, breathlessly, "Now you have," and then nothing can hold him back, and he closes his eyes as he curls up, his forehead finding her shoulder as she gently moves with him, his fingers uselessly clawing at the bed as he cries out her name.

After, he feels surprisingly empty. Marian slides onto the bed beside him, and he's painfully aware of the tension still in her muscles, but she smiles, and kisses him, and lays her head back down on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around her and then he's falling asleep, falling, falling...

* * *

><p>There really is a girl. She really is pregnant. But she's not giving birth, and she doesn't need his help. Anders is surprised. Justice is not.<p>

He lets it happen. Willingly gives in as Justice steps through him, and then power is pouring through his fingers and staff.

When he comes back to himself, they are all dead. Even the pregnant girl. But this time, he does not feel anything. He goes through their pockets, pockets the loose change.

Another Lowtown tragedy. Not something the guards will concern themselves with.

But the note is another matter. Written on it is a single word, a name.

Hawke.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

When she wakes, he is gone. She reaches out and touches the bed where he was, as though she can somehow find him by doing so, but he doesn't mysteriously appear.

She sits up, looks around the room, but the only sign that he was there at all is the tray of salves next to the bed. That, and the semen stain beneath her; convincing her that it wasn't all a dream.

Standing, she wraps the coverlet around her, makes her way to the bathroom, where Bodahn – as reliable as always – has already drawn a tub. She sits on the edge for a moment, letting her fingers dangle in the water.

What does it mean?

She remembers the way he responded, his gasps and moans as she gently slid her hand across his skin. It was like he'd never been touched before.

Maybe he hadn't. She didn't realise he'd never been with a woman before. If she had... maybe she wouldn't have let it happen like that.

She doesn't even know what it was.

Passion? Pity? Relief?

She drops the brocade quilt, and steps into the water, gasping because it is hot.

She remembers the sudden rush of relief when she saw him awake.

The way he said her name against her lips.

How he'd cried out her name – her first name – as he came.

The feel of his hair in her hands. His warm, caramel skin. His beautiful green eyes. His voice – his warm, dark, throbbing voice. Saying, but not saying.

Why did he leave?

She floats in the steaming water, but her belly is churning, and before long she stands, and steps back onto the tile floor. Goes back to her bedroom, where there is still no sign of him, and dresses.

But then she's at a loss – where could she go? Not to Fenris, who probably wants to be alone. Not to Varric – who would take one look at her and instantly know everything.

She's surprised to find her feet taking her to the alienage. That she's knocking on Merrill's door.

"Hawke!" the elf says brightly, "How unexpected!"

"Hi Merrill, how are you doing?"

"Good, good. I've been getting to know some of my neighbours. Friendly people. They keep coming over to borrow things. Of course, I never get them back. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Merrill bustles out of the room, and returns a few moments later with a steaming saucepan, and two jars. She puts the jars down, and fills them from the saucepan.

"They borrowed your cups?" Hawke asks, raising her eyebrows.

"And my teapot. But they promised to return them. They said they were just having a party."

"A tea party?"

"Yes, that's right. Isn't it lovely that people do that in the alienage?"

Hawke just shakes her head, picks up the jar, and takes a sip. The tea is surprisingly good, despite the lack of crockery, and it seems to settle her stomach.

Merill sits herself down in the chair opposite, and picks up her own jar. "So how is Fenris?"

Of course she was going to ask that. Hawke swallows, feeling a strange lump in her throat.

"Ah, Fenris? He's... fine. A little sore, but nothing that won't heal. You did well."

"Maybe Anders should take a look at him when he gets back."

"Yes," Hawke looks away, not able to meet Merrill's eyes.

"He's a very strange elf," the other elf says. "Never comes down to the alienage. I offered to give him a tour, if he wanted one, but he said he didn't care for the smell, even if that is how elves live. It's not that bad, I said. You get used to it."

Hawke nods, still feeling that strange lump in her throat. "So you haven't seen him?" she asks.

"Noooo," Merrill says, drawing the word out. "Isn't he at your place?"

"He was gone this morning."

Merrill reaches out and pats her hand, lightly.

"Like I said, he's a very strange elf. Do you want a biscuit? I still have some."

"Thanks Merrill, but I should probably get going," Hawke says, and stands up from the chair.

"Well, anytime you want some tea, you come and see me. Or biscuits too. I always have biscuits in case I get company."

"Thanks Merrill," Hawke says, and smiles. Then, impulsively, she reaches out and hugs the elf. "You're a good friend," she says.

"Oh my, Hawke, you are too. Let me know if I can do anything. And I'll let you know if I see Fenris."

* * *

><p>Fenris's fist slams into the wall, and plaster rains down onto the tiled floor.<p>

Coward.

He hits the wall again, ignoring the growing pain in his side.

He had woken before her. She was sleeping on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck, one arm thrown across his chest. He'd stayed like that for a long while, afraid to move, afraid to wake her.

Afraid of what she would say.

This had only happened, he'd realised, because of pity. He should never have let her give him that. Should never have let her give him...

But he was weak. He was weak, and for a moment, just a moment, he'd let himself believe–

But he did not want to have to face her, hear her tell him that it had all been a mistake.

Or worse, ask for his forgiveness again.

So he'd carefully eased himself out from under her, dressed back into his filthy underclothes, made his way to the mansion, where he'd sat on the bed, and stared at the floor and punched the wall.

He was a coward.

There is a knock on the door, and Fenris freezes. The knock comes again, louder, more insistent, and he hears Varric's voice; "Elf, I know you're up there, let me in."

So he makes his way downstairs, and opens the door.

"You look like shit," the dwarf says in greeting, and walks past Fenris, up the stairs. Fenris follows, silently padding after him, and finds the dwarf restarting the fire in the grate.

"What are you doing here, Varric?"

"Heard you'd gone missing from Hawke's. Figured this was the only place you'd be."

Fenris blinks. "Gone missing?"

"News gets around. Hawke was worried. Told Daisy. Daisy told me."

"Well you've found me."

"Can't get rid of me that easy, elf. Something's eating you. And I'm here to help you out."

"I don't need help, dwarf. I'm perfectly fine."

"Yeah, looks like it. It's written all over that miserable face of yours."

"I'm not miserable."

"Keep telling yourself that. I'm just going to have a seat here, and wait until you feel like telling me what's going on."

The dwarf sits down on the wooden bench in front of the fireplace, looks at the lute propped up next to him, and picks it up before plucking notes from the strings. It is horribly out of tune, but the dwarf appears not to notice.

"Do you have any requests?" Varric asks. Fenris shakes his head mutely, and the dwarf starts playing an awful rendition of the Wild Maid of Starkhaven. Fenris cringes.

Varric plays the whole tune, then looks up at him. "Still not going to tell me? Well, I'm going to have to continue on with the ballad of King Cailan then."

"Stop, dwarf." Fenris walks forward, takes the adjacent seat, and Varric puts the lute down. The dwarf leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him.

"So what's going on? Merrill said Hawke was worried sick."

"It's not something I'm going to talk about," says Fenris, staring at the fire. "Not to you, not to anyone."

Suddenly he's reminded of the smell of her hair as it fell like a curtain all around them, the way she said his name as she slid herself down onto him – Maker.

Varric's eyes are on him. Fenris looks away.

"You love her, don't you?" he says gently.

Fenris jerks his head up, eyes wide.

"Don't look so surprised, elf. You're easier to read than you think."

Fenris forces out a laugh. "At least that explains why you always win at Wicked Grace."

"It's not my fault you're predictable. If you love her, why'd you leave?"

Fenris looks away again, surprised by pinpricks of pain in his eyes. He swallows.

"I-" he starts, but realises that he has no idea what he could say. If nothing else, he can't violate Hawke's trust in him. So he shakes his head. "I don't know," he says.

"When Hawke realised you'd been taken," says Varric, "She demanded that Selbrech give her the men you captured. To exchange them for you."

"What happened?"

"Selbrech refused. So Hawke took matters into her own hands. She was determined to get you back, no matter what."

"She shouldn't have bothered."

"I hope you didn't say that to her. If you had seen her- well, let's just say that you would've known what staring down death looks like. I've never seen her like that before. Hope I never do again."

"Why are you telling me this, Varric?"

"Thought you should know." Varric stands, dusts off his trousers. "You know where I am if you ever want to talk."

* * *

><p>When Anders returns, there is a line of people waiting outside his clinic. Some are sitting, leaning against the walls. Others are sleeping with their heads on the laps of friends or family.<p>

When they see him, they get up, their eyes brightening, and he is tired, so tired, but he holds up his hand for them to wait, fishes around in his pocket for the key, unlocks the door, and pushes it open.

Then he stands back, and waves them in.

* * *

><p>Hawke comes to see him that night.<p>

He's sitting on the cot in the backroom, his head in his hands. And he cannot. stop. shaking. He looks up when she comes in.

"Hawke," he says, and his voice sounds as tired as he feels.

She doesn't say anything, just sits next to him. And when he turns to her she wraps her arms around him, and he buries his face in her shoulder, and just shakes, and shakes, and shakes.

* * *

><p>It's morning, and she's lying awkwardly on Anders' small cot. Anders is lying half on top of her, his head resting on the top of her chest, his hair just under her chin. She lays there for awhile, though her neck is cramped and she can't feel her right side, just happy to be.<p>

When she moves, he wakes and rubs his eyes. "Morning already?" he asks.

"Unfortunately," she says, and moves to the mirror to fix her hair. She glances at his reflection. "You were pretty tired last night."

"It was a long day," he says, and in the mirror she can see him glance down at his hands.

"Did everyone get out okay?" she asks.

"They did. Though I had a run in with some thugs on the way back."

She turns. "Thugs?"

"Yeah." He rubs at his mussed hair, then pulls out the band holding it back. It gently swings down around his face, and she's tempted to run her hands through it. "They had this." He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, and wordlessly hands it to her.

She holds the note by a corner, and looks at the mage sitting on the bed.

"They're after me?" she say. "Why?"

"I don't know," he says. "But someone wants you dead."

"Hmm," she says. "Maybe I've just ruffled too many feathers in Hightown."

He looks up at her and smiles. "You do have a knack for causing trouble," he says, then his expression becomes more serious. "But seriously, Hawke, be careful."

"I'll be careful," she says, then smiles a lopsided smile. "You know me."

"That's what worries me," he says. He stands, walks over to her, and places a kiss on her forehead. "Stay safe, my love."

* * *

><p>Lady Selbrech receives her in the sun room.<p>

"Is it done?" she asks, gesturing her to seat opposite.

"It is," Hawke answers, taking the proffered seat.

"And the elf?"

Hawke grimaces. "Badly injured," she says, "But alive."

"Well, at least you have him back." The woman looks at her pointedly over the top of the needlework she is doing. "You ought to take better care of your possessions... particularly those you demonstrate affection for in public."

Hawke almost spits her tea all over the mahogany table. "Excuse me?"

"Come now, Hawke. We're friends, aren't we? It's just a friendly word of advice, from one who has been playing this game much longer than you."

"I'm not playing a game, Selbrech, and I can assure you that Fenris is not my 'possession'."

"Well, what word would you prefer? Man-servant? Bodyguard? Consort? … Lover? I must admit, most ladies aren't brave enough to take them out in public. _That_ set a cat among the pigeons."

"What, are you suggesting that Fenris and I..?" But she has a horrible feeling that the outrage she's showing doesn't quite match her intentions.

"Now, now, Hawke... we all do it. Or most of us anyway. Elves know their place. They're not likely to ask about marriage, or expect that they'll suddenly start running the show... Why, thank you, Marcus."

Hawke suddenly looks at the elf that hands Lady Selbrech her tea in a new light.

"... And even if they do," the Lady continues, "It's easy enough to get rid of them. I must admit, though, that elf you have is quite the prize. Where did you find him?"

"Lady Selbrech, Fenris is not – never will be – mine."

"Is that so? Hmmm," the woman looks thoughtful, with a small smile. "Well maybe he will consent to be mine."

Hawke has to laugh at this. "Fenris will never be anyone's. And it may be hazardous for your health to even try."

"A shame." The lady takes a sip from her cup. "Well, anyway, now that this matter is resolved I will take my case to the Viscount. I look forward to seeing Powell's face when he's summoned to court." She replaces the tea cup in its saucer. "You may be called as a witness, to corroborate my evidence. I trust this won't pose a problem?"

"Not at all," Hawke says with grim satisfaction. "I look forward to seeing Powell go down. It's just too bad it won't be at the tip of my blade."

* * *

><p>When the tea is finished, and the goodbyes are said, Hawke makes her way back through Hightown. As usual, there are no lights in Fenris's mansion, and she almost – almost convinces herself to go and knock on his door. But there are just too many questions she's afraid to answer. Too many silences she's afraid to fill.<p>

She doesn't go to see Anders either. Instead, she lies awake in a bed that seems way too big with no one else to fill it.


End file.
